


The World is Kinder Than You Think

by mmwhatchasayy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, bucky has no memory of hydra, bucky wakes up like steve did, implied Steve/Bucky, the last thing he remembers is hitting the ground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 19:51:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10928883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmwhatchasayy/pseuds/mmwhatchasayy
Summary: Bucky wakes up in a New York recovery room in 1945 to find his arm gone and his world hazy. It isn't actually too big of a deal, though, because Steve is sitting next to his bed and giving him that sad, familiar smile.(Only, maybe it is a big deal. And maybe it isn't 1945.)After all, they say that if a person goes through heavy trauma, the brain can erase or block out specific memories. And being a personal weapon of destruction is certainly a bit traumatic.





	The World is Kinder Than You Think

Bucky would like to say that the last thing he remembers is falling.

Falling, and trying to keep his eyes trained on Steve - but he's falling, falling, falling, and Steve is hurtling away, clutching to the side of a train car and looking for all he was worth that he wanted to jump right after Bucky.

But, of course, the world is never that kind - at least, it hasn't ever been to Bucky.

He remembers much more than simply falling.

He remembers the scream being ripped from his throat as he tumbled through the air, head over heels over head, again and again.

He remembers reaching for a handhold but finding nothing, nothing but the vast emptiness of the sky above and rapidly growing ice and rocks below.

And then he remembers hitting the ground. God, does he remember.

The pain was like nothing he'd ever felt before, excruciating and horrible, feeling like he was about to be torn to pieces.

He was lucky to black out quickly, the wave of pure agony towering a thousand feet above his head for only a moment before crashing down on him, washing him away and dragging him in at once.

It's bloody and gory and tearing him apart, and all he wants, all he's ever wanted, it seems, is for this torture to end.

Despite the fact that it was only seconds before the world fell into darkness around him, the way that it had felt to crash into the rocks and the ice and the snow - it's impossible to forget.

So, yeah, Bucky remembers.

But maybe the world is a whole lot kinder than he realizes.

Maybe Bucky doesn't remember all of it.  
  


*****  
  


Bucky wakes up slowly.

He hears the familiar sound of a baseball game as it crackles over a radio.

_It's just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets field. The Phillies have managed to tie it up four to four, but the Dodgers have three men on. He leans in, here's the pitch -_

The words are vaguely familiar, but that isn't exactly the most important thing on Bucky's mind at the moment. He tunes out the warbling, twangy sound of the announcer's voice as his eyelids flutter open.

The room is brightly lit, its open windows allowing a cool breeze to sweep through. But it's as if Bucky's mind is in a fog.

The world is hazy and dreamlike, and he can't seem to focus on any one thing.

It isn't an unpleasant feeling, just an unfamiliar one.

He isn't sure where he is or how he got here, but for the moment, it doesn't matter. All that matters is the warm blanket and the soft pillow and Bucky's eyes are closing, closing, closing . . .

He's drifted off before anyone even realizes he'd been awake.

When he comes back into that state, the one where he's almost awake but not quite asleep, it's dark outside and the lights are turned down low.

But, oddly enough, the Phillies and the Dodgers still seem to be going at it, and the announcer is just as excited as ever.

Still exhausted and feeling like he could sleep for a few hundred years, Bucky reaches to yank his pillow over his ears, curl it around his head like he would when the sound of death and destruction grew too loud outside his tent, too horrible to listen to. Only - 

Only -

Why isn't his arm working?

Bucky turns to look, with a mild sort of horror lighting up his features, and sees only a swath of white cloth wrapped tightly around his shoulder, right where his arm should be.

 _Oh_.

He reaches with his right hand (which is, thankfully, right where it should be) to palm roughly at the stump of a shoulder, scarred thickly beneath all that gauze.

There's a dull ache in his shoulder, he realizes now, but it doesn't seem near close enough to the pain Bucky had always thought losing a limb would be like. (Not that he'd thought about it directly, but when you're surrounded by so much death and pain, it seems impossible to not at least consider the idea of it.)

And it could be the shock or it could be the drugs pumping through his system or it could be something else entirely, but at the moment, Bucky can't really find it in himself to care.

And maybe that's wrong, but again, it doesn't really matter all too much to Bucky.

After all, what's he going to do about it? What good would freaking out do him?

Absolutely nothing. It won't bring back his arm, it won't dull the throbbing ache in his shoulder. He learned long ago how little whining could get someone what they wanted.

And, besides, he's just so damn _tired_.

So he uses the other arm, his right one, to wrap the pillow around his head and tune out the noise as he closes his eyes.

Bucky prefers sleeping to being awake. In sleep, he has two arms.

In sleep, he's back home, and Steve is there, and he's healthy. The war is over, and America is still American, and HYDRA is gone or never existed, doesn't matter which.

In sleep, everything is better.

(But, of course, not everyone can sleep for years on end, no matter how much they want to.)

When Bucky opens his eyes next, he isn't the only one in the room. Steve sits by his right side, clutching to Bucky's hand like it's the most important thing in the world. Bucky knows the feeling. He's been the one holding Steve's hand tight in a hospital room not unlike this one many times before. Even if their roles are switched, this feels familiar.

Steve isn't looking at Bucky, though, he hasn't even realized he's awake. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, and he's whispering to himself, concentrating hard, a crease set between his brows.

He's praying, Bucky realizes after a moment. Again, he knows what it's like. To sit in a hospital, alone and scared, praying to a God he wasn't even sure he believed in (but Steve always had, and so he'd prayed anyway).

He waits for Steve to finish his _Our Father_ before giving his hand a tiny squeeze, just to let him know he's awake.

It's almost comical, how fast Steve's eyes pop open.

"Buck," he breathes. He's never looked more relieved, more grateful, in his life.

"Stevie," Bucky murmurs in response, a small smile making its way onto his lips. He never could help but grin when Steve was around.

And then Steve is inching closer, ever so cautious but looking for all the world like he just wants to lunge at Bucky and hold him in his arms forever.

"Can I - ?" He whispers quietly, and something is definitely wrong, because when has Steve ever asked for permission to wrap his arms around Bucky? When has he ever had to?

But he can't bring himself to care, because then he's grinning just like he used to, dimpled cheeks and sparkling eyes and all, and he's reaching out to Steve with a muttered, "C'mere, punk," and they are finally, finally together.

Steve's arms are squeezing Bucky's middle, tighter, tighter, tighter, but they're still not close enough, they're never close enough. Bucky's arm is wrapped securely around Steve's shoulders, holding him tight.

They sit like that, Steve perched on the edge of Bucky's bed with his face tucked into the crook of Bucky's neck, the both of them clutching to each other like their lives depend on it, for a long, long time.

It takes Bucky only about a minute to notice that Steve is shaking under his arm, making little hitching noises into his neck with each breath.

He adjusts his grip on the larger man to be able to slowly brush his thumb across the back of Steve's neck in soothing circles. "It's okay, Stevie," he murmurs. "It's all okay. I'm here. I've got you."

For some reason, that only seems to make Steve cry harder, pulling Bucky ever closer and burying his face deeper into the man's soft shirt.

A good few minutes later, Bucky pulls back just the slightest bit. Steve makes a small noise - practically a whimper, God - at the loss of contact, but lets go and sits back all the same, roughly wiping at his eyes.

"What is it, Stevie?" Bucky asks quietly, searching Steve's face carefully, because he's too upset. Steve doesn't get upset like this, not ever. Not over something as simple and unimportant as _Bucky_. "What's wrong? Is it my arm? Because that's not a big - "

Steve cuts in quickly, his words sure but still soft. "No, no, you know me better than that, Buck. I don't care about the arm. I just - " His voice cracks painfully, and he starts again. "I just missed you, is all."

Bucky frowns. "You missed me? How long have I been out?"

Steve's eyes widen a fraction of an inch. He's said something he shouldn't have. "I just meant - " He's stumbling over his words now, just like he used to. A little kid with a head moving miles faster than his mouth ever could. "You just scared me. It's been a while."

"How long have I been out?" Bucky repeats, carefully. Enunciating every word.

Steve avoids his eyes, reaches down to fix the blanket lying discarded around Bucky's waist.

 _"Steve,"_ he pushes.

"Just a little while," he says after a beat, pasting on a smile and looking back up. "A few days." It's a lie, but there's something in his eyes, something deep and pained and scared.

Bucky sighs, nodding. He'll back off the subject for now, it isn't like he can't ask again later. "Okay." He takes Steve's hand again, squeezes it gently. "Okay."

They sit for a while in a comfortable silence, Bucky listening to the game that still crackles over the radio and Steve just staring at him, studying him, soaking him up like he hasn't seen him in years.

"Why does this game sound so familiar?" Bucky mutters after a bit, scrubbing a hand down his face. "It's just like the one we were at."

There's a long stretch of silence, only the sound of their breath and the honking of cars far below, while Steve looks at Bucky, his eyes holding a pain much deeper than it should be. "Get some sleep, Buck," he finally whispers. "You'll feel better after some rest."

And normally Bucky would argue, especially with Steve acting so strangely, but he really is exhausted. So instead, he mumbles something along the lines of _stay with me,_ and allows his eyes to flutter shut.

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve promises quietly as Bucky slips into an easy sleep. "Not ever again."

And so he stays.

 

*****

 

Bucky's been in this place, this recovery room, for going on three days, now.

Usually, he'd be itching to get up by the end of the first day, to drag Steve around the place and explore together, or to just get out of there with no specific destination in mind.

But it's just so nice here. 

Steve spends most of the time sitting at his bedside, sketching or sleeping or talking with him, a small smile always on his face. He gets food, too, food much better than any he could afford at home (it's hospital food, but it's still better than cabbage soup every night and stale bread every morning).

The world is pleasantly far away, which Bucky has figured out is largely due to the tube in his right arm - or rather, whatever drug they're pumping into him through said tube. 

He doesn't mind. When it all feels this good, how could he?

"Hey, Stevie," he hums thoughtfully on that third morning, looking up to the ceiling and stretching a bit. It's been a while since he stood, and he's beginning to grow restless.

(Bucky is always restless.)

Steve looks up from his drawing with a quirked eyebrow, setting down his pencil. "Yeah?"

"When can we go home?"

And the oddest look crosses Steve's face with that. He practically _crumples_. It's worrying, but he smooths it over quickly, as if nothing had happened.

Bucky pushes it to the back of his mind - it's easy enough to do, with the world still sliding around him like sand slipping through fingertips.

"You know, I'm not sure," he admits, staring back down at his sketch. It's of Bucky, because of course it is, they're all of Bucky. In the picture, he's sleeping on his side, a small smile curling his lips up. The Bucky in the drawing is flawless, better looking than the real Bucky ever could be. He lacks the real man's heavy under-eye circles, his greasy hair, the nasty split in his lip. "I think there are just a few tests they need you to pass first."

Bucky pushes himself up a little in his bed, sits up a little straighter. "Like what? Hit me. I can pass any test they throw at me."

Steve's smile is fond, amused. But again, a little sad.

Why does he look so sad all the time?

"It's more like . . . " He pauses a moment, thinks back on something from a long time ago. "You remember those spot the difference things we used to do in the paper, back when we were kids?"

Bucky nods, but he's kind of (really) lost. Where on earth is this coming from? 

"Yeah?"

"It's like that, Buck. You just gotta focus. You gotta think hard. Spot the difference, find what's wrong with the picture."

He's just about to ask what picture, there's no _picture,_ when a woman steps briskly into the room, her smile tight and her curls loose.

"Captain Rogers, Director Fury would like to speak with you."

He ignores her, keeps looking straight at Bucky. It's a strange sight - Steve has always been a gentleman of the highest standard.

"Captain Rogers," she says louder, sounding annoyed. 

"Just another moment, ma'am," he responds, still looking to his friend. "Buck, I need you to really focus for me, alright?" He sounds desperate now, his eyes are growing wild.

"Captain! Do I need to get security?" She almost threatens.

And this is wrong, it's all so wrong, none of this should be happening. 

A nurse shouldn't be shouting at a captain, a war hero, shouldn't even be sent to call for him. Steve shouldn't have that crazed, frightened look in his eye, and that game, that damned baseball game, still cracking and popping loud over the radio - 

Bucky squeezes his eyes closed, uses his good hand - his only hand - to press and rub against his temple. 

It's all too _much,_ all of a sudden. He can't handle it.

"Just go with her, Steve," he says quietly, desperately. He needs to be alone, he needs to focus.

There's something wrong, but he doesn't know what. He needs to figure it out, and he needs to do it right now.

He doesn't know why, but it suddenly feels horribly important.

"What? But, Buck - "

"Go." It's begging, it's pleading. He needs this, and Steve can see it, can hear it in his voice.

He stands slowly. "I'll be back later?" It's a question, not a promise. He's pleading, too. 

 _Don't make me go, Buck_.

Bucky nods, and then the thick door creaks open and clicks shut, and he is alone.

He rubs roughly at his eyes, still screwed shut.

 _Focus,_ Steve had said. _Think hard_. But focus on what? It's so hard to think with that stupid radio blaring away.

_It's going . . . it's going . . . it's gone! Right through Aunt Maggie's window! A home run! A homer!_

Bucky's eyes pop right open, and he can't help his small gasp.

The game. Of course. Why hadn't he noticed it before?

But it isn't just this one. Every game that came over the radio's speakers was one he'd been to before. Games from '33, '35, '37, '38 - they were all there. But that couldn't be possible. 

A radio broadcasts live, everyone knows that. So how could this be happening? How could any of it?

He'd fallen off a train, he shouldn't be alive. Steve's an army Captain. There's no way he should be getting this much time off, especially with a World War raging on just outside.

The drugs filling Bucky's bloodstream are no longer pleasant, they're horrible, clouding his mind and his vision, hiding obvious chinks in this place's armor right before his eyes.

Steve knew what was going on, of course he did. But now Bucky's gone and kicked him out, told him to meet with some man he's never heard of. He has to get out of here.

It only takes an instant - an instant in which Bucky reaches for the tube in his arm - to remember that he's only got the one, now. Desperately, he tears the needle out of his skin with his teeth, sending a sudden spray of blood across the white cotton shirt he doesn't remember putting on (or ever owning).

He staggers to his feet, pausing for a beat to find his balance.

Turns out, walking isn't exactly the easiest thing when you're 10 pounds lighter on one side and filled to the brim with morphine, or some other drug just like it.

He quickly gets the hang of it, though, and makes his way to the door, turning the knob - only it's locked.

Why would it be locked?

He isn't a prisoner, he's a patient. Right?

He's positive, now, something is definitely, horribly wrong.

Bucky's wrenching the window open, some disjointed plan about ledges and fire escapes and jumps already forming in his drug-addled mind when he realizes - what the _fuck_ \- that it isn't a window at all.

It's like a movie set, with pictures and walls and doors and windows. He only takes a split second to ogle at it, at the absurdity of it all.

And then he's running, fake window left wide open behind him. He's running, and he has to get out of here, and he has to find Steve, and there are people shouting, and suddenly the hallway is flooded with people in black, and, and, and -

And he's outside.

Only it's even worse out here, it's so much worse.

This is fake, too, it has to be. This is not Bucky's New York. This is some alien city, filled with people who look and walk and talk like humans but _aren't_.

They can't be.

Horns are honking and people are shouting and Bucky wants to throw up.

He keeps running.

Bucky runs until he can't anymore, until a circle of sleek black (and rather ominous) cars forms around him, boxes him in. And so he stops, slowly turns around with wide eyes as he stares at the blinking lights and loud, busy signs around him on all sides.

A car door slams, and Bucky tears his eyes from the screens, bigger and brighter than any film screen he'd ever seen. Steve takes a tentative step toward him, his face almost apologetic.

"Stevie?" Bucky says quietly, and his voice is scared and confused. He never had been good at hiding his emotions, especially not from Steve. "What . . . Where are we?"

He smiles. It's sad, because of course it is, he's always smiling sadly now. But it's a smile nonetheless.

(Because Bucky is finally, finally here. And Steve isn't alone anymore.)

"Welcome to the future, Buck," he says gently, stepping closer and reaching out for him. 

Kind eyes, kind words, kind _Steve_. And it makes no sense, but maybe it'll be okay. Because they're here together, just like they'd always promised each other they would be. 

"We made it."

**Author's Note:**

> The first baseball game mentioned is the one Steve wakes up to at the end of TFA, the second is just a little snippet of a Chicago announcer from 1941 (I think). Sorry for the lack of a NY announcer there, but oh well.
> 
> If you liked it, please please please let me know because there's nothing I love more than knowing someone enjoyed my work!!
> 
> If you didn't, let me know and I'll see what I can do to fix whatever issue you've got with it.
> 
> Kind of inspired by this post: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/51/14/84/51148490e3ea1f97146da25170e6a1f3.jpg
> 
> Thanks for reading!! :))


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